Not Real Anymore
by Shmegegi
Summary: DA random prompt. Ser Alrik is guilty of crimes against innocent mages. Justice will make him pay for it.


**Author's Note: **_Not Real Anymore_ takes place during _Dissent_, one of the Anders' personal quests in _DA2_. Enjoy!

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**Not Real Anymore**

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The Templars stood in a small alcove beneath the surface of Kirkwall, in poorly-dug tunnels that housed lyrium smugglers. Four of them crowded around a dark-skinned girl, barely a woman, in yellow robes. She cowered against the earthen wall and covered her head with her hands. The Knight-Lieutenant spoke to her. She wept and begged for her life.

Your anger burned through your skin. Blue flames danced on your flesh and seared through your clothes. The warmth smothered you, but you forced yourself to breathe in the stale air. It smelled like dirt and fear.

The Templars were completely focused on their bullying of the girl. Their armored hands rested on the handle of their swords, and their eyes stared down at the girl with contempt. Tears streaked down her face; her gaze was locked with the Knight-Lieutenant. No one noticed when you entered the alcove.

Magic surged through your skin and vaulted from your fingertips: a blue-white fireball launched at a helmeted Templar and knocked him off his feet. He hit the wall and slumped to the ground. The Templars spun around and stared at you. For a quick heartbeat, they did nothing but stare at you in horror.

The Knight-Lieutenant brandished his longsword and demanded a counterattack.

Magic danced on your pale fingertips.

The two Templars charged you simultaneously—your magic sprang to life in front of you—their blades bounced off the barrier—a blue-white fireball crashed through and hit a Templar in the chest. He hit the ground, the Sword of Mercy on his breastplate utterly blackened.

You dragged your staff along the ground and icicles sprang in its path. One skewered the fallen Templar through his legs and stomach. Blood poured from the gaping wounds and stained his armor and regalia. The second Templar leaped out of the way and raised his shield. A shock of white burst from his core—it washed over you and hit you like a stone wall, but you clenched your jaw and willed yourself to withstand it.

Your magic returned just as the Templar swung down with his sword: an icicle shot from your fingertips and pierced his throat. He dropped the sword and staggered back, his hands around his neck. The Templar slumped forward as blood poured over the fingers of his gauntlets. You raised your staff and knocked the helmet from his head. He was a young man; he gurgled out a terrified scream, spraying blood in front of him. You thrust the bladed end of the staff beneath his jaw: the blade sank through bone and muscle and flesh and came out behind his head in a shower of blood. His corpse sunk to its knees. You put your foot on his shoulder and wrenched the staff free, and the corpse toppled over.

There was no fear in the eyes of the Knight-Lieutenant. His lips moved in a silent prayer as he raised his longsword and shield. He lashed out with the sword—you parried with the staff—the blade bit into the wooden handle. The Knight-Lieutenant jerked his sword free and swung again. You grabbed his armored wrist; he clenched his jaw and shoved against you. Magic shot from your palm and slid clean through his wrist. His hand, the sword clutched in its fingers, was severed and went limp in your grip. Blood spurted from the severed muscles and veins. You tossed it onto the ground, your eyes fixated on the Knight-Lieutenant.

The Knight-Lieutenant fell back a step and clutched his bloodied stump. His mouth fell open and his pale blue eyes widened. He stared from the stump to you, the stump to you, and his eyes settled on you. The Knight-Lieutenant threw away his shield and pried his sword from his severed hand.

You let him. You loved the desperation in his eyes. You loved the _fear_.

The Knight-Lieutenant charged you with the bloodied sword. You ducked aside and deftly avoided the strike. Your hand raised: a blue-white fireball spiraled from your palm and collided with the back of his bald head. The fire consumed him, and he shrieked as he slumped onto the ground. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. The flames devoured his pale skin. He thrashed and cried in pain for a solid minute before his body finally fell over, dead, and his corpse went still.

The alcove smelled like burned flesh. It made your blood sing.

You approached the mage. She stared at you as if you were a monster, and she called you a demon when you held out your hand. Your anger seized you again, and your magic flared on your skin. You were ready to kill her, until a voice called out. Your companions stood in the doorway, their eyes on you.

We abandoned them all there and fled back to the streets of Darktown.

When I returned to my clinic, I sought a mirror. A bloodied man I didn't recognize stared back at me.


End file.
